


Blowing off Steam

by mightymads



Series: The private life of SH and JHW [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Period-Typical Closeted Homosexuality, Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Schmoop, enema, flip fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 23:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17838512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: To have a night completely at leisure, being as loud in bed as they wish, the Sleuth and the Doctor go to their fuck-nook in the outskirts of London.





	Blowing off Steam

**Author's Note:**

> “He had at least five small refuges in different parts of London in which he was able to change his personality.”  
> —The Adventure of Black Peter
> 
> Thanks to **Recently Folded** for clearing up a grammar point for me.

After a particularly tiresome day at the surgery I returned home, drained and in a bleak mood. Holmes was still out, investigating a case he had been engaged in for the past week. Since his schedule was unpredictable, there was no point to waiting for him, so I asked Mrs. Hudson to serve dinner. No sooner than she had set the table, however, the front door below slammed and the familiar nimble steps ascended the stairs. Holmes entered our sitting-room and tossed off his coat and hat onto the settee. Obviously, his mood wasn’t any better than mine. His stern eyes softened when our gazes met, and his lips curved up a little. For me also the room had brightened with his arrival. He joined me at the table, and we shared a brief kiss.

“Your colleague was away today, I take it,” Sherlock remarked, ringing the bell to have his place laid.

“Yes, he sent a note all of a sudden, asking me to take over for a few days,” I replied. “Considering how many times he helped out when I had to leave on a short notice, it’s only fair to return the favour. What about you? Any progress with your case?”

“I’m almost done; just dropped in for dinner.”

“Yet you don’t seem to be satisfied.”

“Ah, it’s one of those thankless occasions when the client chooses to do nothing even though I gave him all the facts.” Holmes made a frustrated gesture. “In a couple of hours at the most the culprit will be caught, only to be chided and released again. A noble name can’t be dragged through mud, of course.”

“And there’s no chance to make him get what he deserves?”

“Absolutely none, unless the client presses charges. Can’t wait to wash my hands of this whole affair.”

We ate in silence, commiserating with each other. That’s a facet of our relationship which we treasure especially: we often need no words. I’ve never had this with anyone else. When he and I reached out for the teapot simultaneously, our hands touched. It was as if an electric charge ran through my fingertips, spreading across my entire body. For a moment Holmes was very still. He looked at me. Clearly he had felt that too.

“You know, we should blow off some steam,” I said.

“The Turkish bath?” he suggested.

Somehow the idea of visiting a public venue, even though we had a private room there, wasn’t appealing. Holmes didn’t seem keen on it either. There was another option. I saw the glint in his eye as we came to an understanding. A night in our nook. He slipped his hand under the table and caressed my thigh. We both shivered in anticipation.

“I have to go now, but I shan’t be long,” he said in a low voice.

“I’ll be ready for you,” I murmured.

His pupils dilated, and he licked his lips. God, he was delectable. My prick stirred, starting to harden. Holmes swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Countless images flashed through my mind and countless sensations rose in my memory, tempting, titillating… Not just yet. His hand withdrew, and he collected himself visibly. His face was an inscrutable mask again, but the glint in his eye remained.

Holmes left with renewed energy while I went to the bathroom, whistling. My fatigue had disappeared, replaced by tingling joy. I took my time to prepare myself thoroughly. Water was pleasant as it poured inside me, warming me up, and then I released it, becoming clean for my Holmes so that he could do with me anything he wished. I was at a half-stand just musing about it. Before we had consummated our love, I hadn’t had a slightest idea how enjoyable I would find intimacy with a man. I had experimented by stimulating my prostate with my fingers but could never imagine I would crave being fucked. Sherlock taught me that, as he himself loves immensely being filled with cock.

By his return I was dressed again and had packed into my valise everything necessary. The cab was at the door; we set out, sharing the thrill of our forthcoming adventure. Although we knew how it would unfold, there was still an element of danger in it, for what we were about to do was considered a crime in our country. We broke the law quite regularly in the safety of our flat, in our double bed upstairs, keeping quiet. Our household was aware of our relationship, of course. The state of sheets alone was the most damning evidence, not to mention that it was nigh impossible to be on guard all the time, regarding with caution every glance or word that passed between us. Yet it still wouldn’t do to disturb the people who lived under the same roof with us, no matter how loyal they were.

When we wished to be completely at leisure, one of Holmes’s small refuges for his undercover work served the purpose. We called it affectionately our fuck-nook. It was safe, but we had to be careful lest we should be recognised and followed. The cab took us to the southern outskirts of London, where endless rows of dull brick buildings stretched far into the bleak countryside. We alighted on a shabby backstreet and walked the rest of the way until we reached the familiar place which from the outside looked like an abandoned workhouse.

Holmes took out the keys, and we entered through a narrow side door. Being thus constrained to hide, having driven under veil of night across the whole city to this crude shelter in order to just be ourselves, didn’t depress me in the least. On the contrary, it aroused me even more. The blood pounded in my veins, heat flooding my lower belly as I followed my Holmes along the maze of dark, dingy corridors. His hand was quivering, gripping mine tightly; he was as tense with pent-up desire. While we could only dream of living openly, of our union being acknowledged and respected, not persecuted, in the existing circumstances our love life certainly didn’t lack excitement.

At last we descended into a secluded room somewhere in the basement. Even though we had been here a number of times, it was always at night, so I had only a vague idea of the building layout. As soon as we locked the door behind us, Holmes pressed me roughly to the wall. I dropped my valise and clutched him to myself as we kissed; our hats fell off, but we couldn’t care less. I was giddy, intoxicated by my lover’s taste, relishing faint notes of his tobacco. His skillful tongue was doing wonders to mine. In turn, I took his mouth as I would later take his body, and he moaned, enticed by the promise. I could feel his rigid member through layers and layers of garments between us. The garments had to be discarded, but for that we needed to warm up the room.

We broke the kiss and for a few moments breathed each other’s air, sobering up a little. Then Holmes pulled away and lit the lamp on wall. Beside the lamp there was a mirror, and below—a chest of drawers which contained clothes, make-up, and other necessities for disguises. I started the fire in the water heater in the corner of the room. Soon it would be warm enough to be comfortable. Half of the room was occupied by a big, sturdy bed. A worn rug covered the floor. This place even had a decent water closet. On the whole our hideaway was not bad at all.

Slowly, teasingly, we began to undress each other, stealing furtive kisses. When we were down to our shirts and trousers, with a cheeky grin Holmes pulled at one of my braces, and it smacked me across the nipple. I retaliated by slapping his arse. He laughed, his cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkling. He was gorgeous. His foot tripped mine quite deliberately, and we fell onto the bed, giggling. I pinned him underneath me and kissed him hard. We frotted through the clothes, struggling with buttons and devouring each other’s mouths. Somehow we managed to undo our flies and finally pressed our pricks together. There was no need to restrain the blissful groans which escaped our lips; no one would hear us here. Sherlock stroked us both with his long, deft fingers, and we leaked, sliding faster. At one point we had to pause, for we were getting too close to the crisis.

“Want you in me…” Sherlock murmured, panting. “I should be fine for that, but it’s better to… would you?..”

I caressed his cheek. We kissed again, and then I had to pull back and get up. Obliging him in this delicate matter pleased me. It marked how close we were: being as self-reliant as he was, he didn’t shy away from asking this of me. After years spent in self-imposed isolation, now he yearned to be touched and loved when I tended to him.

I took an enema syringe from my valise and went to the water closet to wash my hands and fill the syringe with warm water from the tap. By the time I returned, Holmes was naked, on his elbows and knees. Desire surged within me at the sight—he had submitted himself to me completely.

The vaseline jar was already beside him on the bed. I stroked his back and trailed kisses down his spine and over his pert buttocks. Then I parted them and ran my thumb along his puckered entrance. It made him goose-fleshy; he had a catching of the breath and shifted closer towards me.

I scooped a generous amount of vaseline with my finger and smeared his entrance, playing with the rim and inserting my fingertip just a little, to incite his appetite. He let out an impatient sound, both needy and demanding. Chuckling, I coated the nozzle of the syringe thoroughly with vaseline, and then pushed it carefully past the tight rim of his anus. Holmes gasped, sensitive as ever. I pressed the piston little by little, filling him up with water. Holmes’s breath became deep and slow, but there wasn’t any tension in him; he was relaxed and pliant. Having finished, I put away the syringe, and wrapped my slick fingers around Holmes’s stiff prick. He moaned, his entrance clenched, as I stroked him, fondling his bollocks with the other hand. My own prick hung heavy between my legs. It was sweet torture for us both.

“John,” Sherlock warned in a husky voice when it became too much for him.

I ceased my ministrations. He rose and turned, and the next instant my breath was taken away by a most fervent kiss, and then Holmes was off to the water closet. While he was there, I made the bed with fresh sheets I had brought with me—cleanliness was important for us both in this regard. Soon Holmes returned and embraced me from behind. His hands roamed over my chest, sides, and hips as he was removing my remaining clothes. Those hands had always been my undoing; he could play me like his violin, knowing countless chords of my body, improvising and discovering more. He kept cataloguing my responses and sensitive spots every time we were intimate. Now it was I who submitted himself completely to his lover.

Kneading my buttocks, Holmes lowered himself to his knees and took my prick into his mouth—at first only the head—sucking at it gently and teasing it with his tongue. He elicited from me a low, guttural moan. It felt amazing, yet I yearned for more. Holmes looked up at me, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. His lips stretched as he swallowed my engorged member to its base. The hot wetness of his mouth was heavenly. Bobbing his head up and down, he sucked me with obscene slurping noises, his cheeks hollowed. Engulfed in pleasure, I ran my fingers through his hair and caressed him behind the ear. He hummed contentedly, sucking harder. When we had just met, he had already been fairly experienced in it, even though he had been out of practice for years, since the university. By now he had mastered the art of sucking cock to perfection. In spite of myself, I began to rock my hips, disrupting his rhythm, and he let me fuck his mouth. Holding his head lovingly, I did so with relish; the tip of my prick pushed against the back of his throat, but my Holmes took it masterfully until I was on the verge of the peak again.

It wouldn’t do to finish yet, so I stopped, and my prick slid out of Holmes’s mouth. He trailed long, wanton kisses over my bollocks and then had me turn around and part my legs wider. His tongue slipped between my buttocks and lapped at my hole, making me gasp and curse. My mind went quite blank—no thoughts save the sensations of his tongue teasing the rim of my hole and thrusting inside. I groaned, exposing myself more. Slowly, gently, he worked me open as his tongue was going deeper. I frigged my prick, consumed by the growing need.

“Sherlock,” I pleaded.

I felt him smile against my hole. He reached for the vaseline jar and anointed my entrance thoroughly. Then he rose and led me to the foot of the bed. I rested my hands on the footboard, supported myself firmly upon it and, tingling with anticipation, bent my back. He caressed me between the shoulder blades; his hand slid down and grasped me by the hip, and then his cock was pushing into my hole. Sparks of intense pleasure permeated me as he was stretching me inch by inch, taking his time. He knew what it would do to me, knew that I would be reduced to whimpering in bliss by being breached in such a fashion. His cock pressed in, in, slick and hard, making my body sing. I was biting my lips, losing my self-control. Of all carnal delights in my life, giving myself to my beloved has been one of the most sensual experiences from the very first time. Only with him I realised what true closeness is. 

Sheathed in me completely, Sherlock paused so that I could adjust. I always enjoy beyond words being full of him. It doesn’t make me any less of a man, for loving without prejudice is by no means a weakness. Sherlock must have felt when I was ready—he started to move at a gentle pace, the languid, delicious drag of his member stretching me more. The hand with which he had guided his cock inside me slid forward and closed around my prick. He fucked and stroked me at the same rhythm, and I relinquished the last vestiges of composure, carried away by the flood of sensations. His pace quickened, becoming rougher and rougher; God, how I loved it. I was moaning at the top of my voice. His hips slapped my arse, his bollocks slamming against my hole, and he couldn’t focus on stroking me any longer. He just held me by the hips as he was fucking me sore. Jolts of white pleasure coursed through my entire body, almost making me sob. My stiff prick dangled, neglected, but I didn’t really need it to be touched, with Sherlock’s cock up my arse, hitting my sweet spot.

When our relationship had transitioned from platonic to physical, at first he had preferred being taken. Soon, however, he had come to enjoy the reverse role as much, moved by my vulnerability and unconditional trust. His caring for me has no bounds. Being the only man I have ever had, he taught me same-sex love practices, and we keep exploring each other. Our closeness makes it easy to experiment and try new things. It is a most fascinating journey.

Holmes’s rhythm grew erratic, his breath ragged, as we both were getting close to the edge again. He went slower, and I straightened myself up so that my back touched his chest. We kissed tenderly while he caressed my chest and teased my nipples, and then he slid out of me. We laid ourselves down on the bed, and he spread his legs for me, his prick standing at attention. I too knew the kind of foreplay he wanted. I applied a copious amount of vaseline on my two fingers and slathered his entrance, tapping at the rim lightly. Holmes threw back his head and closed his eyes with a sigh. Circling my thumb along his perineum, I pushed my forefinger in and stroked him inside. When I prodded a small, round mound, Holmes let out a luxurious moan. As I kept fondling it, Holmes was grunting quietly, slack-mouthed, his gaze heavy-lidded and unseeing. I added my middle finger and gradually increased the intensity, now thrusting deeper, now brushing against the sensitive spot until he was trembling and clenching his arse. My stiff member was leaking for him, but I wasn’t done with titillating him yet.

Now I was sliding my fingers inside him back and forth, mindful not to touch his prostate while coaxing him to open up more. Sherlock moaned and hummed, his cheeks flushed. I leaned forward and wrapped my lips around his prick—I still hadn’t learned to receive all of him without an onset of reflex gagging, so I sucked the head and took in as much as I could, frigging the rest of his length with my other hand. Sherlock moaned louder as he clutched fistfuls of the sheets. He bent his legs and raised them, whining, utterly debauched.

“John,” he gasped, barely articulate.

My resolve crumbled. Desperate to have him at that very instant, I removed my fingers from his arse and released his cock from my mouth. Neither of us had patience for a slow entry; I slickened myself up hurriedly and shoved my prick into his hole. He let out a low, sensuous groan as I filled him—I was fully inside him at a single push, deep in his tight, hot arse. I began to fuck him in earnest immediately, and with each thrust he kept saying my name like a mantra. He embraced me with his legs as I was slamming into him and we were kissing hungrily. Our bodies thus intertwined, we fucked in a frenzy, panting and moaning, our heartbeats wild. Our passion was consuming us, and we went on and on, having lost track of time. When we finally paused to draw breath, the mindless lust had burned out, and what remained in its wake was endless tenderness. I looked into his eyes; their colour was of the stormy sky. There was none of that habitual sharp austerity about his beloved features. Instead, they were soft and glowing as he was gazing back at me. He stroked my cheek, and my heart was overflowing. I have never loved and been loved like that.

Without looking away, I resumed rocking my hips, very gently this time, and frigged his throbbing cock in long, hard strokes. He met my thrusts, his eyes shining and his kiss-swollen lips parted, until he quivered in my arms and spent profusely between us. Seeing his enraptured face while his tight arse was clenching around my prick brought me to the crisis too. As a wave of pure bliss swept over me, I ejaculated, still thrusting into him, and Sherlock clung to me, a few more drops of semen spurting out of his still rigid member.

We lay in a post-coital haze for quite a while, all messy, our limbs entangled. At last, as loath as we were to budge, we had to. I pulled out and flopped down gracelessly beside him. Sherlock wiped us both with an edge of the sheet—I conceded to that since we were too lazy to get up—then he stretched out his long arm and rummaged in the drawer of the bedside table. Having found what he was looking for, he put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. After a few draws he passed the cigarette to me, and we savoured it by turns, puffing out rings of smoke. Momentarily exhausted but not inclined to sleep at all, we exchanged mischievous smiles. Tomorrow we would have to behave again, but for now the rest of the night was ours.


End file.
